


Standing on a Rock

by fandomlver



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: ALL THE BONDAGE AND TORTURE TRIGGERS EVER, From a Kink Meme Prompt, Gen, I'm not even kidding, it has a mostly happy ending though, oh wait is that a spoiler, oh well too late now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1269589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomlver/pseuds/fandomlver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili is taken by Azog, and by the time he's found, he's not quite Kili any more. From a kink meme prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing on a Rock

**Author's Note:**

> Wealhtheow21, if you ever happen by some miracle to see this, I swear I had the whole thing written and part posted on the kink meme before I found yours...and anyone else, if you haven't read Wealhtheow21's fic yet, go right now. It's AMAZING.

He wakes, and everything is wrong.

The room is bright and airy. He's lying in a bed, covered in warm furs. He's wearing soft, comfortable clothes; his hair is clean and tied back from his face. The aches and pains he's lived with for so long are muted and distant. He doesn't feel hungry or thirsty, and that on its' own is enough to terrify him.

It's wrong. It's _wrong_. This is not - he can't...

Overwhelmed, unable to breathe, he falls off the bed, crawling to a corner and huddling into it. He fingers the fabric of his tunic uncertainly; it's so fine and clean, he feels as though he's spoiling it just by having it near his skin. The wounds on his arm are bandaged; he tugs at the wrapping, and when he frees it he discovers he's half healed.

No. That can't be. He remembers receiving those wounds. There hasn't been enough time. He can't possibly be healed yet. Not unless - but he hasn't lost time in so long, and he moans helplessly at the thought of going back to that.

He's been huddled in the corner for a while when the door to his room opens, and several beings walk in. They're tall, but too slim, proportions all wrong; he closes his eyes against them for a moment, trying to make them fit.

One of them kneels in front of him and speaks softly. The sounds tug at some part of him, but he can't follow the meanings, shaking his head helplessly. "Where am I?"

The beings exchange looks, and the one on the floor reaches towards him. He freezes. He can't resist, he knows that, but he doesn't know if these beings are allowed to touch him. "Where's Taad?"

The being considers him before speaking to the others. They withdraw, leaving them alone.

"Arwen."

He blinks, uncertain. He badly wants to pull his hair loose, to hide behind it, but these people have tied it back for a reason, he's sure.

"Arwen."

This time the being touches its' chest, and he nods obediently. "Arwen."

"Kíli."

He flinches, pulling away from the expected blow. "Please, no, I didn't, don't...Taad? Taad!"

Arwen sits, unmoving, and he shivers.

 

Arwen closes the door carefully, not looking back. The dwarf is still huddled in the corner; she hasn't been able to coax him out, can't get him to eat or take water. His own name induces terror, and he still isn't speaking right.

Lindir has obviously seen her coming, because after a moment Elrond comes around the corner to join her. "Arwen. How is our guest?"

"Not well, Father. He still uses only the Black Speech; his own name seemed to hurt him. He doesn't seem to recognise his own injuries. He won't eat or drink. If he goes to the hands of the Dwarves from here as he is now, the King under the Mountain will declare war on us."

Elrond nods. "And you have an idea?"

"Send word to our cousins. There is one who may be able to help him, if any can."

 

He's sitting in his corner, thinking of nothing, when Arwen comes in again.

She comes often, sitting on the floor, watching him. Sometimes she tends to his injuries; he endures in silence, waiting until she's gone to remove the wraps and bandages. She leaves food and water near him, but he knows that game, and he never makes a move for them. She talks, often, sometimes in that almost familiar way, sometimes making sounds he's never heard before.

No one has touched his hair since he woke, and he's finally risked shaking it free, letting it fall around his face. Now he can watch her without her knowing it. It's no real protection, but it makes him feel a little safer. He has decided she must be female; she's so unlike anything he remembers.

Today she's not alone. Another - he decides this one is female, too - is with her, speaking quietly in the unfamiliar way. He watches them both through his hair, trying to decide what's going to happen.

Then Arwen leaves, and the strange one remains.

He scowls. He knows this game, too.

The stranger sits in Arwen's spot, watching him carefully. After a while she moves, picking up the cup from where it always sits on the floor, taking a slow, careful sip.

He watches, almost forgetting to keep his hair between them.

She lowers the cup, holding it out to him. He doesn't move, waiting for her to laugh and pull it away, or to pour it over the floor.

Neither happens; she just sits there, holding it, and after a long time he dares to edge a little closer. She still doesn't move, and, heart pounding, he tries again.

Eventually he's just within arms' reach. She still hasn't moved, patiently holding the cup out; trembling, he reaches for it. This is the moment; she'll pull it away, or pour it out, and leave him with nothing.

The cup is in his hands.

He scrambles back, pressing his back to the wall, protecting the cup fiercely. She doesn't move for another moment, watching him; then she stands gracefully and turns, leaving the room.

He allows himself one sip, then wedges the cup between his body and the wall. They haven't tried to touch him yet; perhaps they won't take it away.

 

He'd been trapped in the dark for so long now, he'd forgotten how to judge time.

Born and raised in mountains and caves, he'd never been afraid of the dark, never been lost when he could not see. But this was no dwarf mine, and he was starting to think he'd never see one again.

The wounds on his back were starting to heal; still painful to touch, still tender, but they no longer pulled open every time he moved. That probably meant someone would be coming to start the next round soon. He wondered dully if they'd kill him, this time. He was starting to hope so.

Probably not. He was still valuable, after all.

When he heard footsteps and saw the light of the torch, he buried his face in his arms and shuddered.

 

 

The next time the stranger comes, she brings him food. As she did with the cup, she eats a little first, and then offers him the plate, waiting patiently for him to come and take it.

He can't stop himself eating while she's still there, even though he knows better. But she doesn't seem surprised; she even gets another plate when he's finished the first, though he makes no move towards it and ignores it when she leaves it near him.

"Silme."

He looks up, frowning, and she gestures to him. "Silme."

Hesitantly, he touches his own chest. "Silme."

She nods, and offers him another cup. The first is still only half full, but he takes the new one anyway.

This continues for some time; she visits, brings him food or water, and simply sits. He knows it's foolish, but he starts to relax, lulled by the feeling of safety around her. Sometimes she teaches him a word or two, always something useful, and when he uses them back to her she smiles proudly.

One day, while he's eating, she starts to comb her hair with her fingers, humming absently. He watches from the corner of his eyes. Her hair fascinates him, has ever since he first saw her; such a bright color, soft and silky as his own had been when he woke.

She looks up, catching his eyes, and smiles, gesturing him to come closer. He risks it; she hasn't touched him yet. She waits until he's just within arms' reach, as close as he ever gets to her; then she turns, drawing the mass of hair over her shoulder to hang down her back, and presents it to him.

He stares at it for a long time, the fall of color, the brightest thing in the room. Hesitantly, he reaches out and touches it. It's so soft, he can't resist bringing the other hand up too, burying them both in it.

After a moment she moves her head so that his hands slide down through the hair. He repeats the motion, building a rhythm after a while. It's curiously soothing; he stops thinking, watching the hair flow over his fingers.

He snags suddenly, hair tangling around his damaged fingers, and freezes in panic. He can't free himself without pulling at her, and that will cause pain and bring punishment. He can't do it.

She reaches around gently, tracing the tangle with her fingers and freeing him in a couple of movements. She's still holding his wrists, the first time she's touched him yet, and he doesn't resist as she draws him around in front of her.

She studies the clawed fingers on his right hand, the awkward bend on the middle and third fingers on his left. Her grip doesn't hurt him, not at all, but she keeps him in place for a long time, just studying the injuries.

Something shines, wet, on her cheek. He stares at it until she lets him go; then he retreats, slowly, to his corner, and watches her until she leaves.

 

He was curled on the floor when they came for him. There was enough of him left to struggle, but he had no real hope of getting free; too long without food and water, too many of them, too many chains and too few weapons.

They threw him to the ground, and someone kicked him in the belly; he retched emptily for a moment before dragging himself to hands and knees. He didn't try to get any higher. He'd learned that lesson.

"I thought I asked for the Dwarf!" Bolg bellowed overhead. "Why do you bring me this Elf maid?"

The Orcs around him sniggered. He shuddered, keeping his head down. If Bolg was already speaking that way...

A hand tangled in what was left of his tunic, dragging him to his feet, and then just that little bit further. He teetered on his toes, desperately trying to keep his balance.

"Can't be an Elf," someone jeered. "They can stand upright."

"Let's see." Bolg slowly let go of his tunic. "Stay up now, little Elf. Stay up. Don't fall. Don't wobble. Stay up."

He tried, weight shifting from one foot to the other, staggering, stretching desperately. Finally it was too much, and he stumbled, crashing to his knees.

"Oh, dear," Bolg crooned. "That's no good, little Elf. Tell you what; I'll help."

Bowstring wrapped tightly around one finger, hauling him to his feet and beyond. He screamed, kicking desperately, trying to find something, anything to take his weight. It felt as though his finger was being pulled off.

"Here." Taad's voice, and something under his feet; not stable, not wide, biting into his skin, but there, just enough to take the weight from his finger. "Stay steady," Taad coached him. "Don't slip, Elf. Don't fall. Stay centered."

He didn't dare to speak, but he thought it over and over: _I am a Dwarf, and I was made strong to endure. I will endure this._

He fell eventually, of course, unable to keep his balance on the blood-slicked surface. Bolg hauled him back to his feet, tied another finger, and started again.

 

She comes in the next time holding something in her hand. He sits up to watch her, wary.

Sitting cross legged in front of him, she draws the thing - it's a comb, he realizes - through her hair, letting him see the shallow teeth. After a moment she gestures him to turn around.

He obeys, of course, but he's so tense it hurts as he sits there, waiting. She moves closer; he can hear the movement, sense her closeness. Then she touches his hair.

He bows his head just slightly, waiting for it to start hurting, but it never does. There's a very faint pressure as she runs the comb through his hair, but nothing more than that. When she's finished she backs away a little, and he turns.

She gestures to her own hair, tied back in braids, and then to his. He shakes his head quickly, letting it settle back around his face. "No. Thank you."

She nods, holding out the comb. He takes it, confused, and when he looks up again she's pulling out her braids, letting the hair fall loose.

After a while he puts the comb down with the cup and plate she's never taken back from him.

She sits for a while when she's finished, humming softly. He likes the sound, and he drifts to it. When she stops humming he looks up; struck by a sudden thought, he scrabbles for the comb, holding it up.

She touches his fingers, closing them gently around the comb. He shakes his head, touching a lock of her hair, and she frowns slightly before turning, sitting with her back to him.

It's hard to manage the comb, hard to grip it without it slipping or turning, but he figures it out eventually. Gathering the hair in small sections helps, and he works steadily from one side to the other.

When he's finished she turns, bowing her head briefly, and then makes him repeat the words for comb and brush and braid until she's satisfied.

 

It was almost the first thing they did, once they'd realized who he was, days after his capture. First a beating, to wear him down; then some time spent watching him struggle to his feet, kicking them out from under him each time. Finally, two of the Orcs pinned him down and Azog leaned over him, blade in hand.

"It's almost a shame to cut such pretty locks," he mused, fingering the dark hair. "What kind of Dwarf are you, anyway, with such fine hair and so little beard?"

He spat, and then regretted it; a waste of moisture when he was given so little. He rolled in every direction, trying to overbalance the monster. Nothing worked, and he was forced onto his back again, chest heaving as he struggled for breath.

"Well, perhaps we'll leave the pretty hair for now," Azog said. Then he leaned in and began to cut away beard and skin alike until he was satisfied.

 

The combing makes its' way into the daily ritual, and little by little he relaxes. She often hums as she works, and he begins to pick up the tunes, hesitantly echoing them back to her. She teaches him the words, too; he doesn't understand most of them, but he faithfully repeats the sounds.

Someone else comes in one day, as he's finishing with her hair. He stops singing, but keeps on combing, head down. She's speaking, but not to him, so he just keeps going.

Finally she draws away and he pulls back, eyes firmly down. Her hand passes in front of his face, her signal for _look up_ , and he obeys reluctantly.

"Elrond," the new person says, one hand on his chest. He dutifully parrots it back, wondering if he's being passed on again. He can't picture combing Elrond's hair.

"Hand," she tells him, and he holds it out obediently. Elrond leans over, examining it carefully; he doesn't touch until he has to, and even then his grip is light, causing no pain.

"Hand," she says again, and he offers the other one. The examination here is much briefer.

Elrond straightens, looking down at him. "Pain?"

"No." He shakes his head, letting his hair fall forward.

She gathers it gently, tucking it back so his face can be seen, and he can't help but feel betrayed.

"Any pain? Anywhere?"

"No," he says again. It's not quite a lie. He understands _pain_ and _not pain_ , but he can't tell the difference between them any more.

Elrond smiles and then begins talking to her again. He retreats, slowly, trying to avoid their notice, curling himself into his corner.

When he looks up again the door is closing and he is alone.

 

He'd been awake for so very long, now. He swayed drunkenly where he stood, trying to remember the questions long enough to think of the right answers.

"Our Elf maid is tired!" Bolg hooted. "Have you been keeping her up again, lads?"

A roar of laughter shocked him awake and he caught himself just before tipping over. Bolg noticed - of course he did - and caught one arm, shaking him sharply. "Come on, Maid. What good are you if you can't even stay awake?"

 _That's not fair_ , he moaned internally; that was a new question, he'd never had that one before. "None," he hazarded, knowing he had to say something.

"None!" Bolg echoed loudly. "Tell me, Maid, do you know where we Orcs came from?"

He scrambled for the answer. "Elves," he managed eventually.

"Elves!" Bolg let him go with a shove, almost sending him over again. "But you're no good. You'd make an even worse Orc than you do an Elf. Maybe we should fill you up with an Orc baby, make you useful that way."

He struggled through that. "I can't..."

"Can't?" Bolg prompted him.

"Carry. I'm not a maid."

"The Elf claims not to be a maid!" Hoots all around, and he was so tired, he couldn't stand much longer. "She must be wrong, though, mustn't she? After all, we've taken such pleasure from her body!"

He was so tired. Everything was hazing out. He couldn't even hear Bolg anymore.

Something tightened around his wrist, jerking him slightly. Taad was there, suddenly, steadying him. "Easy, Elf," he murmured. "This will be bad, but I'm here."

He forced the room back into focus. There was a gentle, increasing pull on his wrist. Blinking, he looked down at it, at the chain wrapped around it; then he followed the length of chain as it passed through the coals in one of the many fires to Bolg's grip.

Meeting his eyes, the Orc gave a sharp tug, and he fell.

 

After a while, she starts teaching him different words for the same things he already knows. When he makes a face, she says one word the way he's used to - the sound that never reminds him of anything - and tells him "Sindarin." The other, the one he almost thinks he remembers sometimes, is "Westron."

When she's finished questioning him one day, he says carefully, "Silme."

She smiles faintly, and, in Westron, tells him, "Starlight."

He stares at her, suddenly very sure. Reaching out, he touches a lock of hair, letting it spring from his fingers. "Tauriel."

She smiles, reaching for his hair in turn. "Kíli."

He scrambles back, panic suddenly overtaking him. "No, no, that's wrong, I didn't..." He's babbling in Black Speech, he knows it, but he can't concentrate enough to find something she'll understand. "I didn't, that's wrong, that's not my name, I didn't, please, please don't..."

"Silme," she says firmly, and he freezes, panting.

"Easy," she says more gently. "Silme. Breathe."

When he's calmer she eases down to join him on the floor. "Tell me."

He has to concentrate, slipping between Sindarin and Westron as he goes. "That name, that's bad. Using it is wrong, and bad. Punishment. Taad told me."

"Just that one?" He shakes his head, and she sighs. "I need to say two names. There will be no punishment, understand? I am the one saying them, not you."

He steels himself, and she says "Thorin, son of Thrain. Fíli, son of Dis."

He's backed into the wall before he can stop himself, still expecting pain. Tauriel watches for a moment before turning to get a cup. It gives him a moment to calm himself, and he's able to take the cup with a nod of thanks.

"Do you know those names?" she asks quietly. "The other two?"

"No." His hands shake around the cup. "No. I don't know them."

 

The whip cracked, and he cried out, long past the point of keeping silent.

"What's your name, Elf?"

"Kíli," he sobbed. They knew his name, they'd known his name all along, he didn't know why...

Another crack, another flare of pain. He cried out, trying to pull away, but there was no slack, no freedom anywhere.

"Oh, Mahal, make me stone," he breathed. _I am a Dwarf, and I was made strong to endure. I will endure this._

"What is your name?"

He hesitated, and the whip cracked again. "Tell me what to say!" he cried. "I don't know what you want me to say!"

A second voice joined them. "Tell him you have no name."

"My name is Kíli!"

Three strikes, crossing over each other, and he screamed until he couldn't breathe.

"Tell him you have no name," the voice urged.

"What's your name, Elf?"

"I have no name," he breathed, and the whip was still.

 

He doesn't truly remember her, Tauriel learns quickly, or perhaps he's afraid to, the same way he's afraid to remember anything before his time in Bolg's hands. But remembering her name has cemented his trust in her, and she uses it shamelessly, first coaxing him onto the balcony for fresh air, then beginning to have him make his own choices again. Something as simple as taking food he hasn't been handed leaves him exhausted and tearful, but the next day it's a little easier, and the next day easier again. Leaving the balcony to walk in the garden is almost impossible, but that, too, gets easier, and eventually he can walk under the sun without flinching.

They pass the archery range one day, and for the first time he asks questions. Tauriel answers patiently, though she doesn't mention his skill in the sport. He's rubbing fitfully at his burned hand, something he rarely does anymore; and he follows without complaint when she directs them back towards the building.

They've been working for some months when Legolas arrives, carrying messages from his father to Elrond. He draws her aside to make a brief request, one she's still considering as she enters Silme's room.

He looks up from the book in his hand - she has no idea if he could read Westron before, but he'll be able to by the time she's finished - and smiles. "Tauriel."

"Silme," she returns. "Put that down for a moment."

He obeys, as he always does, watching her with some of the old wariness. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." She sits, and after a long moment he joins her, out of arms' reach. "A friend of mine is here, and he wishes to meet you."

"A friend," he repeats slowly, tasting the word. "Why?"

"To see how you fare. He knew you, a little. Before."

"Will you be here?"

"Yes. If you wish it."

She sends for Legolas, meeting him just outside the room. "Do not touch him," she murmurs. "Do not approach him. Speak slowly; he's still learning. Call him Silme, not any other name."

"I've no wish to harm him," Legolas reminds her. "Not if you want him well."

"And no word to the King under the Mountain."

Legolas raises an eyebrow at that, but he follows Tauriel into the room. Silme is waiting near the window, uncertainty clear in every part of his stance.

"Silme," Tauriel says clearly, "this is my friend, Legolas Thranduilion."

Legolas bows shortly. "I wish to make you a gift, Silme."

"A - gift?" he repeats slowly.

"You are an archer. Better than any dwarf I know of; better than most Men. Almost as good as an Elf." Tauriel scowls at him.

Silme shakes his head. "No. No, I'm not." He holds up his burnt right hand, permanently forced into a claw by the scarring.

"There is a device," Legolas explains. "It can help you, if you wish it."

Silme looks helplessly at Tauriel and she gestures him to come closer. Legolas produces the device, a double hook, and shows Silme how it can attach to his hand, though he doesn't fasten the straps.

"Catch the string in the hooks and you can draw," he explains. "There's a particular way to release the string. Tauriel can show you." He lets go of the device, leaving it in Silme's hands. "I am not giving you a guarantee, Silme. Many do not master this. You may not. Do you understand?"

"I understand," he murmurs. "Thank you."

 

"Ah, Elf." Taad's voice was soft as he rubbed wine into the slash marks on his chest. "All you must do is remember the Answers. Is that so hard?"

"I tried," he whispered, voice barely audible.

"You must try harder. Else I won't be able to help anymore; I'll have to leave you here."

"No. Please? I'll - I'll try harder, I know I can. Please?"

"One more try, then, little Elf. Only one." Taad nudged him gently, laying him out, pulling him into position to be penetrated.

He didn't resist; he didn't remember how. And for a few minutes, at least, he wasn't alone in the dark.

Taad finished with a grunt, wiping himself on the remains of his trousers. "Now. Tell me your Answers, Elf. What is your name?"

"...no name..."

"Good. What are you good for?"

"Nothing."

Taad's voice hardened. "Except?"

"Orc babies in my belly."

"Good." Taad patted his head. "Good, Elf. Remember them. Because Bolg's getting weary of you. Remember your Answers."

He took the torch away when he left.

 

"Who's Taad, Silme?"

He looks up, startled. He's mostly stopped thinking Taad is coming to find him, but sometimes it will still sneak up on him. "Please?"

"Taad," Tauriel repeats. "You called for him when you first woke here."

He lowers his head, careful not to let his hair get between them; he's kept it back since she moved it for him. "Taad took care of me."

"How?" She's kneeling beside him, too close, but he doesn't dare to move.

"He helped me remember the Answers, and when I got hurt he helped me."

"Answers?"

"Please..." He can't breathe. She's too close.

Tauriel backs away a little, letting him recover, but she doesn't let it go, and over the length of that day she gets it all from him. It wears him out, trying to remember all of it, trying to explain it. It's all very clear to him, but she seems to have trouble with it.

He explains how Taad would take care of his injuries, how sometimes he brought a torch into the darkness of the cell, sometimes a little food or water. He tells her how Taad tried to help him when Bolg tormented him, supporting him and aiding where he could. He tells her that when Taad was with him, he was not alone in the dark, and that that mattered. Tauriel gets angrier and angrier as he speaks, and it makes him nervous, makes him trip over his words and flail in and out of Black Speech.

Finally she tells him to rest and leaves the room.

 

It wasn't even the first time it had happened; but those other times happened in his cell, in the dark, and he could pretend them away. This time he was stretched across a bench in the throne room, with everyone watching as he was taken again and again, calling lewd comments and remarks. It was almost more than he could bear, and he buried his face in outstretched arms to keep from being seen. Humiliated tears prickled in his eyes and he blinked them back furiously.

"Head up, Elf!" Azog ordered. "Keep your eyes on me. I want to see you."

Someone wound a hand through his hair, jerking back, sending shooting pains through his neck and shoulders. Azog grinned merrily. "Keep watching me, now, Maid. Perhaps one of my boys will be able to get a child on you. That would be useful, wouldn't it? You'd like that?"

He did his best to nod against the pull on his hair, and Azog laughed. "Excellent! Who's next? We want a child in the Maid's belly before we stop!"

More quietly, he added, "Keep your eyes on me, Maid."

And he obeyed.

 

"He did it on purpose," Tauriel seethes, pacing across Elrond's study.

Legolas is watching her, eyes narrowed. "Who did what on purpose?"

"They broke Kíli and made him into that _thing_ ," she spits, "by pretending to be kind. Someone there pretended to be his friend, to take care of him when Azog and Bolg hurt him."

"Who?"

She shakes her head. "All he knows is the word Taad."

Elrond frowns, steepling his hands. "Taad is an old Dwarvish word for father."

Tauriel curses for as long as she can manage. Legolas looks impressed by the time she winds down; Elrond looks carefully impassive.

"My apologies, Lord Elrond," she says belatedly.

Elrond shakes his head. "What Orc would think of something like that?"

"So it wasn't an Orc?" Legolas asks with a frown.

"Certainly Taad was not. Does Kíli - Silme, forgive me - know anything about him?"

"Only that he was kind. Though he wasn't; the things Silme's told me..."

Elrond nods. "Tauriel, if this is too difficult for you...none would blame you. You have worked wonders with him. Others can continue."

"No. Thank you, Lord Elrond. I'll stay with him." Glancing at Legolas, she adds, "If my prince does not object."

"I believe my father would insist," Legolas tells her. "The return of the lost prince to Erebor can only be beneficial to us."

"Thank you," she murmurs.

"You will not return tonight," Elrond tells her. "Arwen will see to him. You should rest."

"Yes," Legolas agrees before she can object. "Come."

Helpless, she allows him to lead her away.

 

Taad brought him water, a few mouthfuls, and he drank gratefully. It had been four days, and he was dangerously close to collapse. This was water, too, not the liquid muck or piss he was usually given, though it tasted faintly bitter.

And then he collapsed, pain lancing through him, vomiting helplessly.

"Oh, Elf," Taad sighed from above him. "Did you drink it too quickly? You know you should only sip." Taad touched his hair, frowning at the mess. "I'll bring less, next time, so it will be easier for you. Try to relax. This will pass."

The light went away, the door closed and locked, and he dragged himself to a wall, trying to stay upright to avoid choking. Already he was bringing up nothing but bile, pain tearing at his insides with every heave.

He kept vomiting for most of a day.

 

Arwen is kind, and gentle, and makes sure he has everything he needs. But she is not Tauriel. He finds himself unable to sleep, worried in case Tauriel is not returning.

When she comes back the next morning he's huddled in the corner again, something he hasn't done in a while. It took a long time for him to feel safe without a wall behind him, and he hates that he can't help himself now. 

Tauriel frowns when she sees him, crossing to kneel in front of him. "Silme."

"I thought you were gone." His voice breaks and he looks away, unable to meet her eyes.

"No." She touches his hair, gently. "No, Silme. I am not leaving. Was Arwen not kind?"

"She was kind." He rubs at his face, fingers catching on the scars along his jaw. "She was not you."

Tauriel is silent, and when he risks looking up she's looking at Legolas. He straightens, embarrassed. Legolas is so silent when he moves.

Legolas moves now, coming to crouch beside her. "I asked Tauriel to help me last night. I won't ask again. My apologies."

He gestures vaguely. "No, she should help you. You are her friend."

"You are my friend too," Tauriel says, hand slipping through his hair to touch his cheek. He twitches away, uncomfortable, and she turns to Legolas. "Let me show you something."

They move away, talking quietly near the door, and he watches through his hair.

Legolas leaves after a time and Tauriel comes back, joining him on the floor. "Silme, listen to me. The names you don't say, the bad names; one of them is your name."

"I have no name."

She ignores it, though she scowls. "One of those names is your brother, and one is your uncle. You are of the royal family of Dwarves, the Prince under the Mountain."

"I'm not a dwarf." He has to concentrate; she's trying to trick him, trying to make him lose his Answers. "Elf maid, good for nothing but carrying Orc babies. No Dwarf. Too thin, no beard. No, don't..."

She freezes without touching him; after a moment she carefully backs away. "Silme," she says softly.

"No." He pulls back, burying his head in his arms. "I have no name. I am good for nothing but carrying Orc babies. Weak little Elf maid. I have no name."

 

"Stay still now, Elf," Bolg growled, carefully dragging the knife blade another half inch, extending his design. He'd been working on it for a long time now, always in thin slices, never enough to bleed more than a trickle. If it was writing, he couldn't read it; it looked completely meaningless from his angle.

He swayed, but didn't recoil; he'd learned that lesson quickly. The chain around his neck tightened briefly with the movement and then fell loose again.

Bolg considered the marks so far. "Passable," he grunted. Glancing around, he gestured to one of the goblins that were always running around under foot. "Where's that bowl?"

He reached gingerly for his chest, trying to feel for the edges of the wounds. Bolg slapped his hands away without looking at him. "Hands _down_ , Elf. You've been told. Keep them down." Reaching into the bowl, he pulled out a handful of white dust, grinning. "Now, we don't want any nasty infection setting in. So you will hold very, very still, Elf, and keep your hands by your side. Understand?"

He wished briefly to be tied; it would be easier. "Understand," he breathed, and then the salt was in his wounds and he was screaming. And his hands stayed at his sides.

 

 

"Let me clean your hair, Silme," Tauriel says one day.

He frowns, reaching automatically for the mass of hair. "Please?"

"Clean it," she repeats.

His injuries have healed, so far as they will, and he's been allowed to clean himself for some time now. But his hair is hard to manage without working fingers.

"It won't hurt," she coaxes him. "And I will braid it afterwards."

He nods, still not sure what she's saying, and she gets up, moving around, finding a basin and clean drying cloths. When she gestures him to come he takes a step back; not a refusal, but a sign that he needs a moment.

"You won't cut it? Please, Tauriel, you won't?" He needs it; it's the only thing between him and the world.

"Not one strand," she assures him. "Only clean it, that's all. Come, let me show you."

She has him sit over the basin and gently scoops water over his hair with a cup. "See?" she murmurs. "Only water. Nothing to hurt you."

"N-no," he manages, eyes shut tight against the water. Her lips brush against his forehead, and then there's more water.

She takes it slowly, easing each tangle out, and combs it when she's finished. He's struggling to stay still by the end, when she lets him up.

"There. See? Better?"

He looks at her through the curtain of hair, nodding slowly. "Better."

 

"Our Elf maid is so pretty!" Bolg cheered.

"I'm not a maid," he snarled. "Nor an Elf. Free my hands and I will show you what I am."

Bolg only laughed. Behind him, Azog was watching carefully, snapping instructions in their foul language.

"One so pretty does not suit us." Bolg reached down, picking up a handful of the stinking mud beneath them. "Let's go, lads! Make the maid more suitable!"

Hands came from all directions, ripping his clothes, smearing mud and worse over every part of him. He fought, of course, kicking, biting, flailing at them; but there were too many of them, and he was dragged down under their weight, unable to move.

Azog approached, laughing when he spat. "You'll learn," he rumbled. Taking a great handful, he smeared it carefully through his hair and over his face. "You'll learn, little prince."

 

 

"Silme."

He looks up, smiling at her. "Tauriel. Good morning." See her face, he frowns. "Is it not?"

She sits next to him. "Silme, we have talked about the King under the Mountain."

"Yes."

He doesn't believe it, she knows, that he is related to Dwarf royalty. He still mostly thinks of himself as an Elf, no matter what proof he sees. But he remembers it, now, parroting it back whenever she asks for it.

That's disturbing, too, since she learned of Taad and his Answers, but there's little to be done about it.

"The King under the Mountain is here."

She can tell the moment he understands, because he freezes; still his first reaction when scared or startled, make himself small and still. "Tauriel..."

"They wish to see you."

"Tauriel, their names hurt me. How can I see them? They want their Dwarf Prince back, not me."

"You don't know what they want," she points out mildly. He flinches, drawing in on himself. "You don't have to see them, Silme."

"But you want me to." His voice is so quiet it's almost lost in the space between them. "You think I should."

"You've done so well," she reminds him gently. And he has; he's talked with other Elves, he walks in the sun, he's training with his new archery hook. When it's only them, she can sometimes almost forget what's happened to him. "You fought so hard."

"I'm so tired of fighting," he murmurs. "I don't know how to be a Dwarf, Tauriel. I don't know how to be -" He has to swallow several times, but he manages to say "Kíli" without flinching and she nods proudly. "Taad was right, I'm useless as a Dwarf. I'm useless for anything."

Tauriel touches his cheek. He lets her do it, but she can see the panic he's holding back. "You don't have to see them if you don't want to," she promises. "But you loved them very much once. And they love you."

"They love him." And that is worrisome too; that he speaks of Kíli-that-was as someone different, a separate being. Silme-as-he-is was born in Bolg's pit, and they are not the same.

"They love you," she says firmly.

He stares at the floor. "Would you be there?"

"If you want me, yes."

"And Legolas?"

That surprises her, a little, but she doesn't ask. "I'll ask him. Shall I arrange it?"

He takes a deep breath. "If I don't try," he says slowly, "it will always be there."

"Yes."

"Please do it."

She nods. "I will talk to them. Where do you want it to be?"

He names a room near the library, small enough for comfort, large enough that he won't feel crowded if they take some care. Tauriel nods, standing and turning to find the King under the Mountain.

"Tauriel?" He sounds so lost, it's an effort not to go to him; but he wouldn't thank her for it, she knows, not the way he feels right now. "If they don't like me, can I still stay here with you?"

"They will like you," she tells him. "But anywhere I am, Silme, for all my life, you will have a place. I swear it."

 

He'd been kneeling by Azog's chair for a while, long enough that his knees were numb and his back screaming. He ignored it. It was better than what would happen if he moved without being told to. The noise in the room pounded at him, burning in his bones. He didn't move.

Azog had been holding a goblet, carelessly, for a while. Every so often it moved slightly, and he could hear the water splashing inside it. He couldn't take his eyes off it. He hadn't been given water in days.

Taad was nearby, occasionally leaning in to murmur a word of support. At one point he leaned past Azog, neatly pulling the goblet from his fingers and holding it out. "Quickly," he said urgently. "Before he realizes. Drink, quick."

He reached for it, so stiff he could barely move. Taad muttered something under his breath, catching his face and tipping the goblet up over his lips. He choked on the liquid, eyes widening as it burned inside him; when Taad let go, vanishing back into the crowd, he rolled to hands and knees, retching and hacking, choking on the foul stuff.

"What's this?" Azog roared from above him. "Taking things that aren't yours, Elf? Well, let's not be bad hosts! Lads, another goblet of Orc draught for the Elf!"

 

Thorin is pacing, cold and angry, when Tauriel enters Elrond's study. Legolas, leaning against the wall by the door, makes to leave, but she touches his arm lightly. "Stay."

Fíli is watching her, eyes bright. "Is he well?"

"He's not unwell," she says carefully. Looking to Thorin, she continues, "He will see you. But there are things you must know first."

"Is that wise?" Legolas murmurs in quiet Sindarin.

"They have to know. They need to be angry now so they can be calm for him."

As dispassionately as possible, she lays it all out for them. The abuses Kíli has suffered, the aftereffects he is still fighting. "Don't use his name in his presence, or your own names. Call him Silme. Don't touch him or crowd him." She looks at Fíli. "He remembers little of his heritage. No Khuzdul. No Iglishmek."

"And how much of that is your doing?" Thorin snarls.

"I know no Khuzdul to teach him, or I would have."

"If you know no Khuzdul, how do you know he doesn't remember his?" Fíli asks.

He's concerned for his brother, not his own petty rivalry, and her tone is slightly warmer. "He used everything he knew to keep us from touching him. All he knew was Black Speech and to beg with his body. He is better now, but he had to learn how to speak anew. He hasn't remembered."

"He was made strong to endure," Thorin mutters. "He would not show weakness to Elves."

Tauriel has to take a sharp breath; Legolas' hand curls around her elbow briefly. "He is your nephew, Thorin Oakenshield, but he is under my care and that of Lord Elrond. If you think you cannot obey, even for his sake, you will not be allowed to see him."

"You will not keep me from him..."

"We'll obey," Fíli says quickly, one hand on Thorin's arm. "We want what is best for Kíli." There's a warning in his voice; Thorin scowls, but he doesn't object. "How should we address him?"

"As Silme. He will accept that." She catches and holds his gaze. "He will not be as you remember him."

"He will be as he is, and I will love him still."

She nods, satisfied. "Come with me."

 

There was a cage, hanging in front of Azog's throne. He studied it dazedly, not fully comprehending what it was for; too small for him, surely. Even a Hobbit would be uncomfortable in there.

"The jailor tells me you get lonely when you're left alone down there," Azog said, gripping the back of his neck tightly. "This will be better, I'm sure. Plenty of company for you."

It was too small; he had to crouch, awkwardly bent over, head pulled in. The bars below and above him were very slightly sharp, not enough to pierce his skin but enough to irritate them, paining him when he moved. The bars at the side were sharper, cutting into him when he leaned against them. The chains around his wrists were fastened to one of the bars, restricting him even further.

Someone jostled the cage and he cried out as he fell against the bars. Someone else jabbed a spear at him, drawing blood.

"See?" Azog boomed. "This is far better! No more loneliness for you, little Elf. Now thank me, for my kindness."

The cage moved again and he blurted "Thank you. For your kindness."

 

He's trembling, though he's trying not to let Tauriel see it. She wants this for him, and she only wants what is good for him.

It's the hardest thing he's done in months, following her into the room.

Legolas is there, but there are two others. Too short, shaped all wrong, and he almost panics for a moment before realising they're too tall to be goblins. One has dark hair like his; the other is bright gold.

"Do you know who we are, lad?" the dark one asks.

He nods quickly. "King under the Mountain. Prince under the Mountain."

"But do you know who we _are_?" the gold one asks more gently.

He nods again, more slowly. "Uncle and brother."

"He doesn't know," the dark one snaps. "Those are just words he's been taught to say."

"He doesn't remember you," Tauriel agrees. Legolas is very close behind him; it would usually make him feel confined, but today it's comforting.

"Do you think he will?" the gold one asks.

"He remembered me," Tauriel tells him. "When he felt safe, he remembered my name and that he trusts me."

"Tauriel." He waits for her to look at him before asking in Sindarin, "Names, please?"

"What is that?" the dark one demands.

"Uncle..."

"You give him your words, you take his beard. Are you trying to make an Elf out of him?"

Tauriel's hand on his shoulders stops his answer.

"We did not take his beard," she tells them. "There is none here who would. That was done when he came to us."

Movement, and the dark one is in front of him. Too close, but there's nowhere to go. "Who took your beard, boy?"

He scrambles through memories, trying to remember. "Azog," he says finally. "Mm - My hair was pretty. So he took my beard instead. To make me -" He cuts himself off.

Fingers on his jaw, and he closes his eyes in panic.

"It'll never grow back," the dark one says heavily. "Not scarred like that."

"It doesn't matter, Uncle," the gold one says. "You wore it short for your archery anyway, Silme."

He stares at his ruined hand, shaking.

"Legolas, take him out," Tauriel says quietly. "You should know, King under the Mountain, that he was asking how to address you. He wanted to speak to you."

If the King answers, it's lost to distance.

 

_I am a Dwarf, and I was made strong to endure. I will endure this._

_I am a Dwarf, and I was made strong to endure. I will endure this._

_I am a Dwarf, and I was made strong to endure. I will endure this._

"The maid's talking to herself!" one of the goblins shrieked.

Azog caught his jaw, squeezing half healed wounds. "What are you saying, maid?"

"Nothing..."

Azog growled, tightening his grip. "What are you _saying_ , maid?" His hand lifted, dragging him off his feet.

"Please!"

"What are you saying, maid?"

"Praying. Please, a prayer."

Azog dropped him, kicking him almost absently. "A prayer. Let's hear the maid's prayer."

He was silent, until the whip painted fire across his shoulders. "Mahal!"

"That's a good start," Azog agreed. "Now what exactly are you asking Mahal for?" He pressed one foot against the whip mark.

"Please..."

"Tell me your prayer."

"I am a Dwarf," he breathed. "And I was made strong to endure. I will endure this."

"Endure, yes." Azog crouched next to him, drawing the tips of his hook along the whip mark. "Because you have no choice. You will endure what we choose to give. But a dwarf? I think not. Get the maid upright, boys!"

The whip wrapped around his throat, dragging him to his feet. He could breathe, with difficulty, if he stayed very still.

"What are you?" Azog asked.

"Dwarf."

Someone hit him in the stomach, and he jerked, choking on the whip, retching from the hit.

"What are you?"

It went on and on until he finally choked "Not a dwarf" and the whip loosened, letting him crash to the ground.

He had a moment to breathe before Azog leaned in. "Then what are you?"

"Not a dwarf." His throat burned like fire.

"Yes, but what are you?"

He was hauled up again before he could answer, choking and heaving, and he didn't know what they wanted.

"Tell them you're an Elf," Taad urged him.

"Taad, please..." He reached out, grasping for him.

"Tell them you're an Elf and the pain will stop."

Someone hit him again. He felt a rib give way, choked out "I'm an Elf" and the whip loosened again.

He couldn't kneel. He couldn't curl around his rib, though he could press both hands against it. But he could breathe more easily.

"Good," Azog said. "Let's make sure you remember. Keep saying it. You are..."

"An Elf."

"Not..."

"Not a Dwarf."

"Keep going."

He kept saying it. Taad wrapped a belt around him, taking some of the pressure off his rib. Otherwise, he was ignored.

He kept saying it.

 

Someone knocks on the door.

He glances up. He's sitting on the floor by Tauriel's chair, quietly reading. Neither of them have mentioned the King or the Prince.

It's taken her some time to coax him from his corner.

Tauriel goes to the door, speaks for a moment, then turns back to him. "Silme, the Prince is here."

He scrambles to his feet, suddenly unsure. "Stay?"

She shakes her head gently. "I must speak with Legolas. I will be in the corridor. If you need me, you may call."

"Tauriel..."

"Galad."

She slips out, leaving him alone with the golden dwarf.

"What does it mean?"

"Please?"

"Galad? It means something, yes?"

"Light. She - for me to call you. If you agree."

"Galad," he repeats softly.

"Is the king very angry?" He edges to one side, keeping a chair between them.

"Angry? No. He's always like that. Don't let it get to you. He always has been like that."

"I'm sorry I don't remember."

Galad eyes him. "Do you remember me at all?"

He shakes his head. "Tauriel tells me things. But I don't remember. Only here, and - and there."

"With Azog."

"Azog, and then Bolg. And then - " he falters. "I don't know, when he left. I wasn't told names."

"It doesn't matter. May I sit, Silme?" He waves at a couch, and Galad sits, making himself comfortable. "Has Tauriel told you about Erebor?"

"Kingdom under the Mountain."

"Yes. But only recently. Listen."

He listens to the story. It's different from listening to Tauriel; Galad is animated and eager, leaning forward, miming things with his hands. He's not a very good story teller, either. Characters appear from nowhere and vanish as quickly, he turns back and repeats and contradicts himself. The shape of the story is clear, though; the kingdom lost, and the quest to reclaim it.

"You were injured," Galad tells him, eyes serious. "We stayed in Laketown, to help you. Tauriel was there, she saved your life. And once you were better, we started for the Mountain, to reach our Uncle, to help him."

"Tauriel lives in Mirkwood." He knows that one; she's told him about it.

"She came to help you," he says patiently. "But as we were climbing the Mountain, we were attacked. And you were taken."

"Taken," he echoes.

"Azog, or his Orcs. They wanted to force Uncle to stand down, we think. But everything happened too quickly. Azog was killed in the battle, soon after taking you, and Bolg was killed a little later. And we couldn't find you. We looked, Silme, I promise we looked. Every Dwarf in the world was searching for you."

He shifts uncomfortably. "Thank you."

Galad smiles tightly. "You look well. What's it like here? I always thought Elves were kind of stuffy."

"Stuffy?" he repeats, lost. "No. They're very kind."

Galad stands. "May I see your hands?"

He lets Galad take them. His grip is no tighter than Elrond's. "Do they hurt?" he murmurs.

"No. There's no pain."

"I'm sorry."

"Legolas is teaching me to shoot again."

"I thought I saw you outside earlier. How does that work?"

He has to tug, very slightly, to free his hands. "He gave me a hook to pull the string with. He says I'm getting better."

"You were always very skilled. Silme, I'm going to leave. Thank you for talking to me."

"Thank you," he echoes, watching as Galad hurries from the room, one hand reaching for his face.

 

"Your brother, little Elf. What was his name?"

"Fíli," he whispered.

It was the whip again; they delighted in it, painting patterns on his skin. He'd hoped that the pain might dull, over time, but it only got worse as new lashes laid over old.

"What was his name?"

"Tell them you don't have a brother," Taad told him.

"No." He shuddered. "Not him, Taad. Please. Anything but Fíli."

"Little Elf, you have nothing else left to give them. Tell them you have no brother."

"I need him."

"I can't stop the pain until you say it. You know he's not coming for you. Tell them and the pain will stop."

It took almost a day and a half before, weeping, he told them he had no brother.

 

Fíli finds Tauriel outside the rooms.

"Are you well, Prince Durinson?" she asks.

"I'm sorry about my uncle. Thorin, and Elves - and he grieved so violently for Kíli. We thought we would lose him to it. Now that he knows Kíli is alive, and so close -"

"I understand. But my concern is for your brother. If I think Thorin, or you, or anyone else, will harm him, this visit will end."

"Thank you," he murmurs, and she's not very good at reading Dwarves but she thinks his gratitude is genuine.

He looks back at Kíli's room, considering. "This is better?"

"Far better than he was, yes." She draws him into another room. "Fíli, I told your uncle very little of what truly happened. If he finds out, I will tell him we simply didn't have time to give him details. But I will tell you, now, if you think you can hear it."

"Do you believe he will remember me? Honestly, Tauriel?"

Tauriel nods. "They took his memories from him, Fíli. He remembers me because they did not know to take me from him. Find something that they did not know to take, something only you and he know, and I believe he will remember you."

Fíli nods, squaring his shoulders. "Tell me."

She tells him everything she's learned, deduced and guessed about Kíli's treatment. She tells him about Taad, who'd manipulated Kíli into believing him a friend. She tells him about the scars Kíli will always carry, visible and otherwise.

"When he first woke here, he was afraid to be touched," she tells him. "So Arwen, to be kind, left food and water near him, so she did not need to touch him. But he never took it. When I came, I put food in his hand and left the room, so he knew I would not take it away again. That was the only way to get him to eat. And everything, everything was that hard, Fíli. Talking, moving. Asking for what he needed. Touch is still very hard for him. He's fought so hard to get to where you see him now."

"You saw his fingers, his left hand. They were broken, torn from his palm and deliberately left to heal wrong. You or I or anyone else could walk in, take his hand and rebreak them, and he would not fight back. He doesn't remember how. That is why they have not been reset; he's not in pain from them now, and I will not inflict pain on him until he can understand why I am doing it."

"In his mind he is not a Dwarf. In his mind he has no name. In his mind he has no brother, no uncle. In his mind he is nothing. That is what they have done to him. That is what we are trying to heal."

Fíli is pale by the end of it, but he has listened without interruption, and she believes he has understood. "I let go of his hand," he breathes.

"Fíli?"

"We were attacked. On our way to the Mountain, after you left to return to Mirkwood."

"Yes."

"Kíli was still weak. Shouldn't have been traveling, but I wanted to get to Uncle, and he wouldn't stay behind - we were running from Orcs and he slipped, on a slope, and I couldn't pull him up. I let go of his hand. I was behind him, but he was gone by the time I got down, taken, and I had to fight through Orcs, and by the time I could follow they'd cleared the trail. I tried to follow, Tauriel."

"I believe you," she says quietly, but she knows that it's not her forgiveness he's looking for; he needs Kíli, and poor Silme may never be able to give him what he needs.

 

It was so dark down here.

He paced in circles, one hand on the wall, trying not to panic. The movement sent flares of pain through his leg, but staying still was worse; when he was still, he could hear noises, things moving in the dark.

He breathed deeply. He was a Dwarf; no darkness would defeat him. "I am a Dwarf," he said boldly, "and I was made strong to endure. I will endure this."

The darkness absorbed the life in his words, leaving them flat and empty, and when he stopped speaking the silence was so much worse. He didn't speak again.

He might have been there a day when a torch appeared along the corridor. It blinded him, at first, and by the time he'd blinked away tears three Orcs were pulling him impatiently from his cell. He fought, of course, but they over powered him, tying his hands behind his back and dragging him through the passages.

Azog howled in triumph as he skidded to his knees in front of him. "Prince under the Mountain! Welcome to our humble abode."

He spat, struggling back to his feet. "Defiler."

Azog bowed mockingly. "I am honored by your recognition, my prince!" He stepped closer, studying him carefully. "My boys tell me you have been injured."

He stiffened. "No."

A backhand strike took him down; he spat blood onto the floor.

"We don't tolerate lying, little prince," Azog said warningly. "My boys say you were injured."

"Yes." He spat blood again.

"Here, by any chance?"

Azog's hook dug into the barely-healed wound above his knee, and he screamed for the first time.

 

He's spoken with Galad several times, now, though they've never been left alone again. He hears things about his uncle, but he hasn't seen him, not until today.

Lord Elrond has come to his room. It's not rare, but not common; Lord Elrond came often while he was healing, but rather less now.

His uncle is behind Lord Elrond, Galad at his elbow.

"Tauriel?" he murmurs.

"Duath."

"Duath," he repeats.

"Silme," Lord Elrond begins, "your uncle has made a request of me, one I will not grant without your knowledge."

"Yes," he says, for lack of anything else to say.

"He wishes to send a dwarf here, to begin teaching you the ways you once knew."

"I'm not a dwarf," he says automatically.

Duath starts to protest. Galad silences him with furious whispers.

"I know your beliefs," Tauriel says softly. "But you may wish to return to them, Silme. Learning their ways can only help you."

"I don't remember," he says helplessly.

"You remembered no Westron, nor knew any Sindarin."

He swallows, hard, looking at Galad. "You?"

"No," he says softly. "I want to. But I am prince under the mountain, Silme. I cannot stay here forever." He catches the fearful look towards Duath, shaking his head. "Not Uncle either. There are others; Dwarves you knew once, Dwarves you trusted."

"Silme, listen," Tauriel says quietly. "My home."

"Mirkwood."

"Yes. It's very close to Erebor. We could go there, and you could learn as your uncle wishes, and perhaps see Galad sometimes."

"Wait," Duath protests.

"Tauriel, you need not leave," Lord Elrond says at the same time.

"My lord, you have been more than kind. To us both. But I am ready to go home. And it will be easier for Silme, this way."

"My nephew will not live in Thranduil's house," Duath says loudly.

Legolas stirs. "Tauriel," he says, deliberately using Sindarin, "you and your charge are invited to stay in whatever place within our borders suits you best, for so long as you chose it."

"Tauriel," he murmurs.

"Where I am, you have a place," she reminds him quietly.

"He will not live in Thranduil's palace!"

"Uncle!" Galad yells. "He will live anywhere he's happy, and if that's Erebor or the Shire or Thranduil's bloody throne room, you will be happy for him!"

Duath turns to look at Galad, taking a step towards him, and he panics. "Don't, don't hurt Galad. He wasn't - he's trying to help me."

Now they're all looking at him, and he drops his gaze, fidgeting uncomfortably.

"It's all right," Galad assures him, but his voice rings falsely bright. "Isn't it, Uncle."

"Yes," Duath says slowly. "He merely surprised me. I am not angry." Turning to Tauriel, he says awkwardly, "Your offer is kind, if you are certain your king will not object."

"He will not," Legolas says firmly.

Galad smiles, eyes bright. "Then you're coming home, little brother."

 

The dark was almost becoming familiar. It meant no one was there, no one was hurting him. The dark felt safe.

He was sitting at the back of his cell, dozing uncomfortably - he couldn't lie down, at the moment, and sleep was hard to come by - when a torch appeared. Wearily, he dragged himself upright.

Azog appeared, Bolg at his shoulder, and he stepped back. That was wrong; they never came down here. He was brought to them. Something was wrong.

"Ah, little prince," Azog said, grinning. "I've received some news, and I thought you might like to hear it."

"I don't want to hear anything you have to say." He was careful to stay back, out of arm's reach, as he said it.

"This one, you will want to know. It seems that your brother was able to track you here. My Orcs took care of him, of course. I'd have brought him to show you, but I'm afraid they were - enthusiastic. You would not have recognized what they left. This might help." He tossed something carelessly into the cell, something that glinted silver. "The line of Kings under the Mountain is getting shorter, little prince."

"You lie."

Azog turned to leave without bothering to answer. Bolg leered at him, following his father.

Alone in the dark, he knelt, hands sweeping over the ground until he found the silver thing. He couldn't see it, but his fingers knew it without sight; a hair clip, the match of the one he'd worn until being captured. Only he and his brother had ever worn these. Neither would ever willingly part with them.

Something wet and sticky was partly dried onto one side.

He bowed his head over it. He thought there were probably prayers he should say, but they had all been taken from him, and he only sat in silence.

 

The journey is not easy.

Lord Elrond has offered them horses, but he can't grip the reins with any ease, so he mostly rides with Tauriel. Sometimes he walks, and when he does Galad usually comes to keep him company, talking idly about things they can see, or about Erebor, or asking questions about Rivendell. He answers as best he can, but always feels lacking; often Galad will cut their conversations short and hurry away to walk by himself for a time.

They aren't particularly hurrying, but the pace is still wearying to him. Old scars and injuries ache under the strain. He doesn't complain, but Tauriel is watching him, and she calls halts whenever she thinks he needs them. Sometimes that's just after they've started. His uncle fumes, but never complains out loud.

Being in the open for so long is terrifying. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to retreat to, nothing to set at his back.

Galad sees his unease and offers him a blade for protection. He almost falls trying to back away from it, the scars on his chest suddenly burning; Galad apologizes fiercely, making it vanish into some hidden sheath in his tunic, spreading empty hands. From then on his hands are always empty when he comes to talk, and he makes sure to keep them in sight.

Mostly his uncle eats by himself. Sometimes he'll come and join them, and make awkward conversation about the journey so far, and the food, and how long it might take to reach their goal. Galad always looks oddly satisfied on those days.

They're still some days from Mirkwood when a party of Dwarves meets them. Galad and Duath ride ahead to meet them; Tauriel is quietly angry, sweeping him onto her horse and placing him under Legolas' watch before going to join them. Angry voices drift back to them, but he can't make out any words; he just huddles on the horse's back, watching Legolas react to whatever is being said.

Finally Tauriel comes back, with Galad at her side. "They're Uncle's guard," Galad tells him. "I thought we'd be through Mirkwood before they reach us, or I'd have warned you sooner. But they won't come near you. I give you my word on it."

"Do they know me?"

"Yes. They know you."

"Silme," Tauriel says, "we can ride ahead if you wish. Your uncle's group can follow."

He shakes his head. "Let them - the king should have guards." He glances at Galad. "Do you have a guard?"

"Yes. But he won't come near when I'm with you."

"It's all right, Tauriel. It makes no difference."

It makes a difference, of course. The dwarves don't come near him, obedient to his uncle, but he can feel their stares, hear the soft murmurs that follow in his wake. He retreats into silence, staring at the ground just in front of himself, paying only the barest attention to Tauriel and ignoring everyone else. Everything in him is screaming that having people watch him can only bring pain.

Mirkwood is a dark mass on the horizon when Tauriel comes to him, eyes dark and worried. "Silme," she murmurs. "We've had word. Legolas and I are to present ourselves, alone, at the border, to account for the group."

His throat tightens. "Tauriel..."

"I've spoken to your brother. He will stay by you. We'll be no more than a day." She kneels in front of him, touching his cheek. "You can do this, Silme. I know you can."

He shudders. "One day?"

"One day. Only one." She smiles gently at him before rising and striding away.

Galad is attentive and kind, but they don't speak much. Once or twice another Dwarf comes looking for his attention, and he always wavers, caught between his two promises, until sent away. 

The others are more open about watching him without his protectors, and it bears down on him, weighting his shoulders till he can barely walk. Galad is not quite so attentive as Tauriel and does not call a break, so he struggles on.

It's his uncle, in the end, who calls a halt for the day, setting up the bedrolls and then stepping away. The camp bustles for a while and then grows quiet as the Dwarves settle in.

Galad comes with food, but he can't bring himself to eat, only take a few mouthfuls of water. He ignores Galad's concern, curling himself as tight as he can on his bedroll, closing his ears to his brother's soft pleas.

The camp falls silent and he lies awake, eyes searching the stars above. He knows their names, but only as the Elves know them. He doesn't know if Dwarves see the same things when they look up.

He knows so little of Dwarves.

His uncle cries out, and he and Galad bolt upright.

Orcs surround the camp, pinning the Dwarves, howling in triumph. No one has approached them yet and Galad tugs at his arm, trying to make him move, to slip away. They're bedded at the edge of camp, they only need find somewhere to hide out of the firelight.

"Little prince."

He shakes Galad's hands off, rising to his feet without quite meaning to do it. "Taad."

 

He woke in brightness.

The sun burned his eyes after so long locked away from it, and it took a long time before he could see past it. He was sitting at the bottom of a basin-shaped depression of rock, bare and unforgiving. A door in one side didn't budge when he hauled at it, and he hadn't the strength to force it. The sides were steep and entirely beyond his ability to climb. He had nowhere to go.

The sun crawled across the sky, seeming to taunt him as it moved. Finally it dipped low enough for a shadow to form on one side of the basin, and he crept into it, grateful as it cut the heat and glare.

Soon after the sun was gone he was freezing, huddled tight to one side against a cruel wind. The basin seemed to trap the cold, leeching heat from him everywhere he touched the rock. The night dragged on, and on, and then morning came and the heat built up again.

He'd endured three days and was in his third night when he realized Taad was standing over him. "Help me," he mumbled, barely able to form the words.

"I can take you from here," Taad told him. "But not for three more days and nights. If you can stay out here until then, I can take you home. If I take you inside now, Bolg will remember you, and I will not be able to help."

He licked his lips - pointlessly; his mouth was completely dry. "I'll die."

"I cannot help that. I can only take you in and give you to him, or leave you here and take you away later."

"Taad, please..."

"That's the choice, little prince, you must decide. Which will it be?"

Thirst alone would kill him within the next two days. Dwarves were hardy, but he was too worn down, too worn out. "Take me in."

"Are you sure? That's your choice, little prince, to go back to Bolg?"

"My choice," he echoed, close to delirious. "Take me back to Bolg. Please."

 

"Taad."

He stands, swaying, staring at Taad. Behind him, he's vaguely aware, an Orc has laid hands on Galad, holding him still.

"Little prince." Taad smiles at him. "Come. Time to go."

"No...!" Galad chokes on the word, coughing. The other Dwarves yell, but none of them can move.

"Go?" he echoes. "Go where?"

"I promised I would take you, little prince," Taad reminds him. "Come with me. Let me help you, as I always did."

"I..."

"No!"

Galad's there, suddenly, arms on his shoulders, dragging him to his knees. His brother's bleeding from a wound on his jaw, but before he can do anything Galad's hand is on the back of his head, dragging him forward until their foreheads meet.

"When you were six," he whispers, "in the winter, we went out playing. It was the first time without adults, because I was old enough to look after us both. There was snow, and you enjoyed it so much I didn't have the heart to take you home, even after we were both soaked through, even when you shivered. You begged and pleaded, and we stayed out until night time."

The words are tumbling out, hard to follow. Orcish hands are grasping at Galad, pulling him away, and his voice rises to be heard over it.

"You took sick; something bad, in your lungs, no one would ever tell me what. Nothing anyone tried helped. They said that Mahal was calling you home. Mama cried all her tears and was silent. Uncle sat by your bed, but he didn't know what to do. He couldn't fight what was taking you."

The whole world is silent apart from the anguished voice.

"I sat by your bed and prayed. I hoped that Mahal would not take you if he knew how well you were loved and how much you were needed. I prayed until my voice gave way, and then I thought the words, over and over until there was nothing in me but you. They couldn't make me sleep, they couldn't make me eat. I was afraid you'd die while I rested. And then, one morning, you opened your eyes, and you looked at me, and you said -"

"Don't cry, Fee," he breathes, dragging the words from some hidden part of himself.

Galad nods wearily. "Please. Remember me. Come _home_."

He totters forward and presses briefly against his brother, hands coming up to grip his tunic. "I am not what you think," he whispers, and then he pushes away, pulling free of the grasping hands.

Galad stays on his knees, head down, unmoving. Taad is watching them, smiling. "Come, little prince."

He reaches Taad's side. "Am I?"

"Are you what?"

"A prince."

Something flares in Taad's eyes, something dark and angry. "You are _mine_."

He takes a step closer, pressed right against Taad's side. "Taad?"

"Yes, little one." Taad inhales sharply.

His voice is clear and steady when he says "I am Kíli Durinson." And he steps away, and the hilt of Galad's dagger is visible between Taad's ribs. 

 

"Keep your eyes closed," the voice reminded him. "I'm almost finished."

He had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. "Why are you doing this?"

The bandage pulled tight around his leg. "Because I want to help you, little prince."

"If you want to help me, take me out of here."

"I can't yet. The moment must be right or we will both be killed slowly."

"They are killing me slowly anyway."

"No, little prince. They have no intention of allowing you to die."

He shuddered at the implications of that simple sentence. "Free me and give me a weapon. I will fight alone. Only let me do it."

"I can take you from here alive, little prince. But I must have time. Trust me and let me make my plans." He stood to leave. "I will keep them from you for a time. Rest."

"Wait." He pulled uselessly at his chains. "Your name."

"Call me Taad."

He recoiled into the wall. "No. That - that's not..."

"It's not my name, but if they knew I was helping you it would be very bad for both of us. This way, they will think you are calling on your ancestors. Only I will know you're calling to me. Now rest, little prince."

He took the torch away when he left.

 

Arrows fly past him, taking down the Orcs. His brother and uncle scream as they attack their enemies, and the noise only grows as the other Dwarves are freed, as the Elves join in.

He hears none of it.

Taad's fingers tighten on the dagger hilt, and it's pulled out and discarded. "Little prince."

"I'm sorry," he breathes. Bright red blood is spilling from Taad's belly. He reaches for it, trying helplessly to push it back in. "Taad, I'm sorry."

Taad falls, sprawling on his back. The fight is over behind them; Galad and Tauriel are keeping the others away from them. Only his uncle is near them, watching carefully, but he makes no move towards them.

"I'm sorry, Taad," he whispers again.

Taad is still.

Orders are shouted behind him and everyone starts moving around. Someone drapes a cloak over his shoulders. Apart from that he's left alone to sit and mourn.

The sky is lightening towards dawn when he sits back, letting go of Taad's hand. Galad has been sitting silent beside him for some time, and he turns to look at him. "Tauriel thinks he was bad. She doesn't say it, but I know she does."

"Yes."

"You think so too."

"You don't?"

He stares at Taad's shoulder, afraid to look at his brother. "I think if he was trying to help me, it's better. If he was bad and it was all a trick, then I was all alone in the dark. I don't - want to be alone there."

"I'm here," Galad murmurs.

"You weren't there. I knew you weren't coming for me. They gave me your hair clip. You were dead."

Galad pulls a silver clip from his hair and holds it out. "The gave you _your_ hair clip," he says gently. "You were wearing it when they took you. Did they take it away from you again? Bolg had it the last time we saw him. One of Uncle's men killed him for it. I have it in Erebor, waiting for you. Did Taad tell you I was dead?"

"He said you weren't coming." He sobs once, softly. "I told them I had no brother. I denied you over and over. I'm sorry, Fee. I just wanted the pain to stop. I tried, I held onto you for as long as I could, but I needed them to stop hurting me."

"It's not important. You remembered me when it mattered."

"I want him to be good," he whispers.

"Then let him be what you want him to be. No one will argue with you."

Fire flares bright behind them and he glances back in surprise.

"For the bodies," Galad says, adding when he frowns, "The Orcs. We burn the bodies."

"But not Taad." Galad doesn't answer, and he insists, voice raising, "He's not an Orc. He doesn't burn, Fee. Not Taad."

"Everyone burns," Galad says softly.

He pushes to his feet, looking around. A Dwarf is waiting nearby; the dark hair and strange hat tugs at his memory, but he ignores it. "Am I your prince?" he demands, scrubbing tears from his face. "Nephew of your king, brother to his heir?"

"Aye. Y'are that."

He points at Taad, hand shaking. "He does not burn. Bury him deep and do not tell me where. But he does not burn."

He knows the dwarf is looking to Galad, but he doesn't care, not when he gets a nod that's almost a bow. "I'll see it done. Y'have my word."

"Bury that with him." Galad toes the discarded dagger. "Come on, Silme. Let me find Tauriel for you."

"Goodbye, Taad," he murmurs, and lets his brother lead him away.

 

"It won't work, Fee."

"Why not?" Fíli demanded, following him into his quarters.

Kíli smiled fondly at him. "Your people won't accept a crippled heir -"

" _Our_ people, and I am King under the Mountain! They'll accept who I tell them to accept!"

" - nor will they accept an heir who still speaks better Sindarin than Khuzdul."

"Good for diplomatic relations. And your Khuzdul's fine." Fíli threw himself into a chair, carefully ignoring the pile of furs in the corner. He usually tried not to ask Kíli whether he was sleeping on the bed or on the floor; only whether he was sleeping. 

"I can recite the genealogies. I can't _speak_ Khuzdul. I don't have the context, no matter how much history Balin teaches me. I can't grow to adulthood again."

"Your Iglishmek's fine."

"Yes, as long as I don't need to give an answer."

"There must be a way, Kee."

"I don't want it," Kíli told him. "I'd die down here. You know I would. I can't be down here for long or things go bad."

And when things went bad it cost Kíli in pain and tears to get back to what they called normal, Fíli knew, but that didn't mean he liked it. "I don't want you to go," he admitted.

"I don't have to go. Not forever. But I can't be your heir. Name Dain, he'll be good at it."

"And what do you do, creep around the edges of the court? You're my brother. I want to give you a position of honor."

"Then do."

"As what?" He pulled off his crown, eyeing it distastefully. "I suppose I could make you a special advisor, like Uncle did to Bilbo."

"Special advisors need to be here to advise you," Kíli reminded him. "That's why they spoke of dissolving it when Bilbo thought he had to go back to the Shire for Frodo."

Fíli smiled. "Good thing Frodo likes Dwarves as much as his uncle. I've rarely see our Uncle so miserable. Not since you came home." Scowling, he added, "Stop being coy and tell me what I'm overlooking."

"So many things," Kíli said sadly, and then laughed when Fíli shot him an angry sign in Iglishmek.

"I am King under the Mountain, you know."

Kíli rolled his eyes, the way he did when he thought Fíli was being very slow. "I speak better Sindarin than I do Khuzdul," he said very clearly.

"Yes, I know, you keep showing..." Fíli stopped, staring at him. "You want to envoy to the Elves."

"Want is a strong word," Kíli murmured. He sat down on the floor, and Fíli winced; being under the Mountain was clearly already starting to wear on him. "I want to help you, and this way I can. I know them already. They know me. I know how Elves think and act. I'm the closest you'll ever get to an Elf who is loyal only and always to you."

"I have ambassadors, Kee."

"You have Uncle's ambassadors. And being Uncle's ambassadors, they don't actually trust the Elves. I've seen how they behave in Elvish courts. You can't have that happening from your court."

"You'd have to go away."

"I'd have to come back again." He leaned back against Fíli's leg. "This is how I can help you, Fee. Otherwise I'll be the Cripple Prince, kept around out of pity. I won't become that. Let me do this."

"Who's been calling you that?" he demanded. Thorin had worked hard to stamp out that title.

Kíli waved vaguely towards the halls outside. "Some of them. Leave it, Fee. It's not important."

Fíli sighed, letting it go with an effort. "And Dain as my heir."

"Find a maid and get an heir of your own on her, then. One of us should, and it won't be me."

"Language," Fíli said mildly. Kíli snorted. He was getting heavier against Fíli's leg as he relaxed.

"You'll need a guard," Fíli said eventually.

"Hmm. Bofur."

"Are you sure?"

He wasn't really surprised. Bofur had attached himself to Kíli after that night near Mirkwood, serving as his personal guard and helpmate, and his easy-going manner made it easier when Kíli was struggling. Unlike a lot of Dwarves Kíli had known before, it never seemed to bother Bofur that he still remembered very little of his first eighty years, that many of his habits were distinctly un-Dwarvish.

Kíli got on very well with Frodo, in large part because they hadn't known each other before.

"You don't know anyone in Lothlorien," he said thoughtfully.

"We don't treat with 'Lorien, and if we did Tauriel or Legolas would take me." Kíli pushed away from his leg, looking up at him. "Fee, I want this. I've been thinking about it for a long time. I'd have suggested it before, but Uncle hated talking to me."

"He felt guilty," Fíli said gently. "Because we couldn't save you."

"I know why," Kíli said impatiently. "I'm not angry at him. I made my peace with him long ago. And he just hated that I lived with the Elves half the time and not down here."

"Yes, that didn't help," Fíli agreed. More seriously, he added "He really did just want you to be happy. He didn't say it well. He was never good that way. But it's all he wanted for you."

"I know, Fee," Kíli said, calmer. "And you want me to be happy, too."

Fíli saw the trap just too late. "Kíli..."

"Name me envoy," Kíli said over him. "I will help you make Erebor even greater than he did."

"That's a bold claim."

"Let me do it. I want this." He settled back against Fíli's leg. "I'll be there anyway. I might as well be looking after your people's interests."

"Our people's interests."

Kíli nodded slowly. "I am a Dwarf."

A reminder, because he wasn't sure, and now Fíli knew he needed to get his brother out of the Mountain soon. He'd been here for weeks, sitting vigil with Thorin and then helping Fíli through the funeral and coronation, and the stress was wearing on him; normally he could go some months under the Mountain before the darkness and being underground wore him away.

Thorin had always known who Taad truly was, had tried to explain it to Kíli any number of times. Kíli had never wanted to know. He tried not to think about his time with the Orcs, only concentrate on the life he'd painstakingly built now; but sometimes the memories overwhelmed him, and Fíli and Tauriel would have to help him back to himself. 

Fíli had never asked his uncle, either. It had never seemed important. There were other things they still didn't know - how had Kíli escaped and got to Rivendell, for one - but Kíli was determined to leave it all behind as best he could.

He tugged gently at one of Kili's braids - Dwarf style, not his usual Elvish. It didn't suit him. "Yes. You are a Dwarf," he murmured. "I have to go; things to do."

"I can help."

"No. Get some rest." He touched Kíli's head lightly. "On the bed, if you can, Kee."

"Go find a maid, I'm not interested."

He was still sitting on the floor when Fíli left.

He sent for Bofur, heading for Bilbo's apartment. The Hobbit had proved to be a wise counselor to Thorin, and had promised to help Fíli when needed.

Frodo let him in, smiling. "Sire."

"Don't do that," Fíli said irritably. "Is Bilbo here?"

"Yes, in the sitting room. Should I go to my room?"

"No, it's fine, thank you, I don't mind you hearing this. Bofur is coming behind me."

Bilbo looked up as Fíli came in. "Sire."

"What is it with you Hobbits?"

"We're all very polite. Come, sit. Can I get you anything?"

"No. Thank you. I just need someone to listen while I talk to myself, if you don't mind."

"I am at your service, Fíli. You know that."

"Bofur's here!" Frodo called from the entrance, and there was another round of don't-call-me-sire and can-I-get-you-anything. Finally they were all settled, watching Fíli expectantly.

"Kíli needs to leave soon," he started.

"You're not naming him your heir?" Frodo said in surprise.

"He doesn't want it. He can't live under the Mountain, not for long. And he thinks the people would not follow him, because of his injuries. He wants me to name Dain."

"What will he do?" Bofur asked.

"He says I should name him envoy to the Elves."

"Finally!" Bilbo exclaimed.

Fíli blinked. "Bilbo?"

"He's wanted that for years. I kept trying to talk Thorin around to it, but he wouldn't hear it. You said yes?"

"I - implied yes. He really wants this? He kept saying it was the only way he could help me. I thought he was -" He waved vaguely. "Being noble, or something."

"He wants it very much," Bilbo told him. "And honestly, Fíli, if you don't do it, you're an idiot. What other Dwarf can represent you so well in the courts of the Elves?"

"Take a note, Frodo," Fíli told him. "That is not how one talks to a King."

"Hobbits recognise no King," Bilbo said, but he was smiling.

"It is how one talks to a friend, though," Fíli added. "Bofur, can I rely on you?"

"For Kíli?"

"You're the one he wants to go with him."

Bofur pressed a hand to his chest, bowing. "At your service, and his."

"Bofur," Fíli said with a sigh.

He grinned. "Aye, I'll go with him. We're used to each other now, the lad and me. Where to?"

"Mirkwood, I suppose. Let him get himself together, and then Rivendell. I'll write your letters. Can you leave tomorrow?"

"Of course."

Fíli sat up. "Before you go, though. Someone's circulating the Cripple Prince again. Please make it clear that I disapprove of that title just as much as my uncle did, and that there are certain assignments waiting for anyone I hear of using it."

Bofur's eyes hardened. "I'll take care of it."

"Thank you."

He nodded, taking his leave, and Fíli sank back against the couch.

"It's the right choice," Bilbo murmured.

"It'll look like I'm trying to hide him in someone else's court. Like I'm ashamed of him."

"Not to those who matter."

"Can I go?"

They both turned to look at Frodo, who squirmed under the attention. "I'm almost an adult. And Kíli likes me. I can help."

"You're not an adult yet, my boy," Bilbo reminded him.

"I can help him, Uncle."

"You just want to see Elves," Fíli said, leaning his head back again.

"You've seen Elves," Bilbo protested.

"I've seen Elves here. I want to see their homes. You've seen them."

"Yes, I saw a lot of Thranduil's prisons," Bilbo agreed.

"I'll be a _diplomat._ Not a prisoner."

"And Hobbits are safer than Dwarves in Thranduil's halls, as I remember. I'll ask Kíli for you," Fíli told him. "It'll be his choice. And if he says no, young Frodo, you'll smile and thank him for considering it, yes?"

"Yes," Frodo agreed. "And ask again when I'm an adult."

Fíli smiled, ruffling his hair and ignoring the glare he got in return. "You did something right there, Bilbo."

"Yes, I'm very proud," Bilbo agreed dryly.

"Bilbo..." Fíli sat forward, clasping his hands between his knees. "You served my uncle very well. I hope you'll consider retaining your position now that I am King. Whatever you decide," he added quickly, "these rooms and anything you or Frodo needs will always be yours. The crown owes you far more than we can repay."

"Fíli, lad, breathe," Bilbo told him. "I wasn't worried about being turned out. I'm happy to serve in any way you think I can help." Glancing at Frodo, he added, "We have been thinking of a trip to the Shire, though. Just a visit. Catch up on old friends, that kind of thing."

"Rub the Sackville-Bagginses' noses in your position," Frodo murmured.

"Why are you still here? It's late. Go to bed."

Frodo laughed, standing and bending to kiss Bilbo's forehead. "Goodnight, Uncle. Goodnight, Sire."

Fíli watched him go before turning back to Bilbo. "He's a good lad, Bilbo."

"I didn't have much to do with it," Bilbo told him.

"When did you think of traveling?"

"Not for a while. In time to be in the Shire for the mid-Summer festival. Maybe we can travel with Kíli a little and indulge Frodo."

"I'll do what I can. Thank you, my friend." He reached for Bilbo's hand, squeezing it lightly. "Anything you need, sir."

"I know." Bilbo squeezed back. "Your brother will be well, Fíli."

Fíli meant to go back to his own rooms. He really did. But he found himself slipping into Kíli's instead, creeping through the rooms until he found his brother.

Sleeping in the bed.

 

 

_Now I'm standing on a rock  
Looking at the sea  
Knowing from this moment  
I'll always be free  
You never did forgive me  
But I can't be a slave_

**Author's Note:**

> Kili is captured by either Azog or Bolg (or both). Rather than kill him, they decide to keep him alive to later use him as a bargaining chip with Thorin (whether or not they are aware of his relationship to Thorin is up to filler). In the meantime, they torture and rape Kili purely for their own pleasure.
> 
> My kingdom for the orcs belittling Kili for appearing so un-Dwarvish, for looking like an elf/woman, and talking about impregnating him and forcing him to bear orc children (no actual mpreg though please).
> 
> Two kingdoms if Stockholm syndrome eventually sets in and, once Kili is rescued (if he is ever rescued) he misses and cries over his abuser(s).
> 
> No happy ending or comfort is necessary, but if you'd like to go that route, this anon likes Big Brother Fili trying to make things all better.


End file.
